


gravity

by starseen



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Patch 2.5: Before The Fall Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starseen/pseuds/starseen
Summary: what if you could live it all again?would you change a thing?
Kudos: 2





	1. poison

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a repost of one of my wol challenge prompts that i wanted to expand on!! ty for reading

Coerthas, as ever, is cold as cold could be.

Though the remaining Scions make their way in daylight, it is low and gloomy, more akin to dusk. The path is scarcely visible just two steps ahead and it is strewn with thick, crumbling ice. And creatures lurk beyond the blizzard-fog—N’elah advances with her hand glued to her lance and her ears high. Everything, from the biting wind to the very ground itself, seems determined to keep them out.

They know not where they are headed; N’elah had lost track long ago. Visibility is poor, and while N’elah and Alphinaud’s hearing is keen, the rush of the storm is impregnable. Nothing lies ahead, and behind them are only fast-fading tracks. Nothing waits for them except the eternal winter; what else is there in Coerthas?

“Oh, _sod_ _it all_ _!_ ” Tataru cries.

N’elah rushes back a few feet, noting that even in close proximity, Tataru’s figure is severely obscured. She lies in a drift hiding a dip in the ground. N’elah holds out a hand, and Tataru takes it, stepping gingerly out of the rut. When she meets N’elah’s eyes, they are glassy with tears.

“Let’s keep moving,” she says. She looks away, and rubs at her windbitten face. “We have to be close by now.”

“At this rate,” Alphinaud replies, “we’ll reach some manner of civilisation before sundown.”

N’elah narrows her eyes. “At this rate, we’ll get ourselves killed. We need to find shelter.”

“You can protect yourself, and so can I—”

“ _No,_ Alphinaud.” N’elah almost winces at her own voice; it is far harsher than she intended. “You can’t this time.”

Alphinaud’s shoulders tense, and he looks away.

“I’m not a _child—_ ”

“You’re barely seventeen, Alphinaud, tell me how that’s any different!”

The air changes between them, then.

N’elah recoils. Her ears lie flat, and she chews her lip so viciously she tastes iron. Nothing, _nothing_ is coming out right, what in the seven hells was she thinking? And then he sighs, and resumes his trek.

It is unlike Alphinaud to leave things alone. From that she knows she’d crossed a line. But the line is so _easy_ with him, the line is letting him learn lessons and stopping him from doing something reckless—but is she hard on him? Is she wrong about him?

How would _she_ know, the self-sacrificing warrior of light?

“Alphinaud,” she says, softly.

He does not answer.

“He’s alright,” Tataru reassures her. Whether she’s right or not, N’elah still feels the guilt knot her stomach. “He needs space—and rest. As do we.”

Everything is gone, now—including their footsteps only ilms behind. No trace of them will remain here within the hour. In the vast, white landscape they stand in, it is easy to believe they are the only people left on this star.

Tataru squeezes N’elah’s hand. “I’ll talk to him.”

N’elah, still lost in thought, nods numbly. They are still here, the three of them, together. But the emptiness within her is seemingly endless, and raw from the chill.

She tries to remember Minfilia’s voice and her hope for their future. She closes her eyes, and nurses the last light she has left.


	2. stone

“Tea?”

Aymeric’s smile is sweet as he gestures to the pot nearby. N’elah looks at the empty cups, and shifts uncomfortably on her feet.

“No, thank you.”

The poor man seems to realise, then, and his eyes widen. “Ah, my sincerest apologies, I didn’t mean...”

N’elah does not respond. But she returns his serene expression with one of her own—albeit uneasily executed. He relaxes, and returns to his seat, motioning for her to take the other in front of his desk.

“Your friend—he knows his way here, I hope?”

N’elah almost laughs. Aymeric must be feeling as unsettled as she does. “He does,” she responds, with some effort. “He should arrive shortly—”

The door cracks open, and Lucia appears. She must be the only one allowed near the room. “Master Alphinaud is here for you,” she says. Aymeric nods, and the door opens further.

“My apologies for my lateness, Ser Aymeric.” Alphinaud walks in with characteristic ease, and N’elah takes as inconspicuous of a deep breath as she can.

“That’s quite alright,” Aymeric replies. “I’m given to understand this is a matter of great import?”

“That it is, and may I apologise again for the lack of forewarning. This may take some time.”

...

“All things considered,” Alphinaud says, “I think that went rather well.”

At night, Foundation lacks much of its characteristic bustle. Where Brume children played and peddlers hawked their wares, N’elah and Alphinaud now wait outside the Congregation in silence. Estinien is still nowhere to be seen—typical, although he promised to stay nearby. For a mercy, the air is still, and the snowfall is as light as they’ve ever seen it before.

N’elah’s mind turns in the stillness. She is back in the tribunal, eyes locked to the Bull who brings his axe down mere ilms from her. She is in the dark Sil’dihn tunnels once more, the ones that haunt her day and night, approaching lamplight spurring her to move so fast she _burns_. Dread tears through her and it is freezing her from the inside out.

“Are you alright?”

Alphinaud—ever the timely individual—breaks through the fog. But how does she respond to that? Of course she isn’t alright, is she ever? She can’t remember the last time she’d _relaxed_. The past moon had dragged, feeling more like a year to her. And the worst part was the _waiting_ —waiting for leads, for audiences, and finally for nothing in particular when they’d finished waiting for everything else. She aches to wander as she had in the Gyr Abanian peaks so long ago—but the danger of being discovered was too great.

She digs her nails into what little of her skin is bared. “Just… stay out of trouble. Promise me.”

As he usually does, Alphinaud defends his honour. “I _was_ ,” he says, “I did nothing to draw attention. Have a little faith in me.”

N’elah feels that guilt again, coiled in her gut. But before she can take a breath, a familiar shadow slips through the snowhaze, and briefly bows his head.

“Let’s find somewhere warmer,” Estinien says.

“Agreed,” replies Alphinaud. He does not look at N’elah as he takes the lead. 

N’elah follows behind, and tries to think of the right words once more.


	3. flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter this time, more of a setup/bridge

“This is ridiculous,” Estinien grumbles.

N’elah shuffles a little closer to the fire. “It’s all we’ve got,” he replies.

Upon the fire lie scraps of hide. They crackle in the heat, and N’elah absently watches the edges curl and turn black. Alphinaud wrinkles his nose at the smell of burning hair, and Estinien and N’elah share a quiet chuckle.

The shadow of Ishgard watches them from the horizon. For malms around, though, lies naught but icy wasteland to watch over. N’elah thinks how strange it is that Coerthas was once widely populated. He imagines what it would have been like—forested, like the Shroud, and the subalpine slopes he spent his summers in when the Wall was closely guarded. Green and yellow grazing fields, hand-built stone walls, and lazy, wide-banked rivers.

And the ever-present threat of dragons, their forms hidden above the canopy—but their calls would be a good enough reminder.

He imagines, then, the scars upon the land, and how they’ve prevailed since. Since his arrival, N’elah has seen countless piles of rubble that once were towers, houses and farms, scorched black and frozen in place long before the lesser moon’s fall. The bones of dragons and men alike—where they may have been found for burial, they will now lie forever under the eternal snow. Coerthas has always been a land of grief, of war. No man will truly find peace here, not now, nor before the Calamity—and if they fail, it will never be an option.

In the short few minutes they’ve spent in front of the pyre, the world has been stained purple. Alphinaud tries to stifle a cough. “I think it worked,” he says, gingerly extending a hand to rest on his tome.

N’elah follows his gaze. Sure enough, someone was approaching through the smoke and the snow-haze; N’elah tenses, widening his stance, and the figure raises their hands in surrender.

“I’m unarmed,” announces the shadow. N’elah recognises her instantly.

The Lady Iceheart seems… smaller, he thinks. Smaller in comparison to before, that is—her advancing form makes it clear she’ll tower over him. Perhaps it was the lack of imminent danger (but just in case, he still gripped his lance with one hand).

“I should’ve known,” she says coolly, with the slightest shimmer of a smile. “What is your business here?”

N’elah meets a clear, translucent gaze with the hard steel of his own.

“We need to talk.”


	4. shadow

“So,” Iceheart says, “what say you?”

The three she addresses stand motionless against the wind. Estinien folds his arms with a click and clatter, and he makes some manner of indignant noise. “’Tis of no consequence _how_ we end this,” he replies. “If this is the way, then I have no objections.”

The tale their unexpected ally had told was, in all honesty, nigh unbelievable. But to N’elah, unbelievable is commonplace—and he is more inclined to believe an earnest communication from another Echo-blessed soul than the thousand-year-old propaganda of a foreign church. They must be careful, as always, but of all their choices, he trusts this one the most.

Alphinaud, too, seems to approve. “Where are we headed then, Lady Iceheart?”

At that, she dips her head. “My name is Ysayle, if you’d prefer.” Then her gaze rises, following the skyline behind them, and settling on some invisible objective beyond the iron-grey mountains. She sounds wistful, as though there were no soul around save herself. “We will head for Dravania. Our path to Hraesvelgr’s home begins there.”

...

Some time into their journey, Ysayle seeks out N’elah. _Seeks out_ is, perhaps, an ill-fitting term; chatter has been sporadic but regular through the two bells or so they’d been on the road. Most is between Alphinaud and Ysayle, or monologues from the former about something-or-other that N’elah does not understand. Estinien has so far said nothing since they began the hike. And N’elah himself was much the same, preferring to keep his eyes focused on their distant waypoint while simultaneously trying to stave off the numbness plaguing his fingers.

So naturally, it comes as a surprise when Ysayle—now even-stepped with N’elah—turns and addresses him directly.

“Ah—N’elah, was it?”

Whether she’d picked it up from the others or simply had a knack, N’elah’s name is not completely butchered. It even sounds quite nice in her steady accent.

N’elah does not reply, but raises his eyes from the ground just ahead. Ysayle seems to adjust, obviously expecting some response, but she makes no comment. “Pray forgive me for our… past altercations. ’Tis strange, that we should become allies so soon.”

“Uh,” he says. “It’s... alright, honestly. I’ve taken worse.”

“I can only imagine,” she replies. She seems hesitant, almost, and N’elah’s tail winds anxiously around his ankles until she begins again. “I have your word that _you_ will stay your blade, but your friend—Estinien—he will be trouble, won’t he?”

“He’s certainly not my friend, and I’m afraid he will.”

Ysayle’s answering laugh is short and bitter. But her voice is soft; it is melancholy, and N’elah feels as if he should look away. “Blind and foolish,” she mutters, and she says no more.

Conversation has never been the warrior’s strong suit. Besides his tendency to lose his words, he often simply cannot find them in the first place, and it is much more comfortable to let others have the stage. But this time, he feels short-changed—Ysayle is staring into the distance, and N’elah feels as though there was something else she wished to say.

Surely, he is imagining such things; he barely knows her, he barely _trusts_ her, and it would be remiss of him to expect _her_ to feel any different. It was merely a glimpse of the future, a trail to follow. Clever, clever woman. _Just what does she want from us?_

The air is clouded now. Before long, flakes catch in N’elah’s hair, and a sharp wind tugs at his long-furred tail. He can scarce see Ysayle in front of him; if it weren’t for her vivid blue robe, she would blend in with the storm completely. Alphinaud—just a few steps behind—makes a pitiful noise, tugging his coat closer to his body. Ysayle, however, is unfazed, wading through the snow with ease.

“We’d do well to take shelter here,” she says—and then she disappears completely.


End file.
